


a boy, a raven, a wolf, a crow, and the winds, harsh and merciless, for winter was here

by fandom_sexual



Series: the wrath of winter [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bleak, Bran Stark-centric, Bran-Centric, Character Death, Death, End of the World, Episode AU: s08e03 The Long Night, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Everybody Dies, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Greenseeing, Guilt, No Night King, POV Bran Stark, Skin-changing, Skinchanging, So i am picking and choosing canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Sometimes it's both and sometimes neither, Sometimes it's show sometimes it's book, Survival, Survivor Guilt, The Long Night, Three-Eyed Raven Problems and Possibilities, Warging, White Walkers, White Walkers Win, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 13:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19174507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_sexual/pseuds/fandom_sexual
Summary: The Raven was wrong, the boy realized, the crow lied, as they always do, and the boy feared.A bleak future, where the dead win, the living try to survive, and a boy battles power and fate.





	a boy, a raven, a wolf, a crow, and the winds, harsh and merciless, for winter was here

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a Prolgue for a different story of mine, and the prologue kept getting bigger and bigger the longer I wrote, so now it's also a separate story.

The Godswood spoke to him, the wierwood beckoned, the past it called, the present looked bleak, but the wolf wanted to fly again.

"I'm going to go now," said the Raven through the voice of Bran Stark.

The broken man in front of him looked at the boy, in fear mayhaps, or in awe, the Raven didn't bother to understand, it took flight once more.

 

*

 

The night was dark, darker than it had ever been, the night was cold, chilling to the bone, the winter's wrath was in full display, and through the crow's eye the Raven looked, searched for an undead dragon.

The winds were merciless, harsh, the ravens, the crows, got swept in the storm, off the paths they flew to, but the Raven didn't lose it's way, it searched and searched, and yet it couldn't see.

It saw the wights, the swords clashing, breaking, falling, horses, humans, men, women, fighting, winning, losing, fires, the dragon breath all around and the ice beings, a few, watching, in the distance.

And yet it couldn't see a dragon that was dead.

A chill went down his spine, not because of the cold, no, and then the boy opened his eyes once more.

The Raven was wrong, the boy realized, the crow lied, as they always do, and the boy feared.

The broken man protected him now, the fallen dead around them, marring the beauty of the Godswood, not many were left standing, neither the alive nor the dead, and the boy spoke.

"Theon," his voice sounded broken too, like he was, scared, "They won't be coming for me."

 

*

 

He felt a cry rising from his being, panic, hysteria, the guilt, the pain, all fighting to get out, he has doomed them all. The Raven was so sure, and it didn't matter now, more, many more would be dead, the boy feared.

The white wolf protected the boy too now, just as the grey wolf had, but failed, and the boy feared more.

The dead fell more, and more trickled in, wanting to devour the living, no matter who they were, and the boy felt even more broken than before.

The man knelt beside the boy, and the boy saw he was afraid too, yet he faught, yet he protected, and a memory resurfaced, mayhaps of the boy, of the Crow, the raven, or of history itself.

Words the boy's father had told him, years and years ago resurfaced, and the boy knew that the man kneeling before him was brave, because he was afraid, knew that he was a good man, because he kept protecting, and the boy had failed him, failed the living, failed them all, because the Crow had believed, and the boy hadn't questioned, and had believed it all himself.

He is getting lost again, lost like he had when he saw all of history at once for the first time, knew all it's knowledge, all it's mistake, and yet didn't know it all.

Seeing kings kneel, princesses die, lords burned, walls built, walls fall, queens rise, ladies dishonored, smallfolk bleed, children cry, princes protect, babes born, slaughters at weddings, plans at tourneys, smiles at funerals.

Hearing wolves howl, lions roar, dragons shriek, and the ravens, the crows caw, so many of them, and hears most of all the cries of pain, the screams, from everywhere, every time, from mothers losing sons, from daughters losing fathers, from familes losing, friends losing, lovers losing, all losing loved ones.

Excruciating pain, everyone has ever felt, suffered through, and he is a witness to it all, he sees, he hears, he feels even, and he can't help, can't protect, can't change, it's haunting, and he despairs, and he breaks, he breaks, he breaks, he breaks. 

"-an. Bran. Bran. Bra-" he hears a frantic voice call out, he hears it differently, from faraway, he thinks he is not witnessing now, he is not sure, all the cries still echo. Is it the boy's name he hears now?

The Crow caws loud, but it's the one distant now, and he hears the name again and again, and he hears the caws, and he hears the name, and the cries echo, and he hears the name, and the guilt suffacates, and he hears the name, and he sees himself fall, thrown, and he hears the name, and he hears the howls and he hears his name, and Bran opens his eyes once again.

 

*

 

He sees Arya kneeling beside him now, Theon off to the side, her eyes are worried, there aren't anymore dead coming as far as he can see.

"Are you alright?" she asks tentatively, unsure of him, of herself. 

"I-I think so," he replies just as careful, but infinitely more afraid.

A smile breaks on her face, he blinks, was it his tone, was it different now? Was the Raven, the Crow gone? Was it there still, but the boy has mastered it now?

His musings were disrupted when Arya hugged him tight.

"I've missed you little brother," she whispered fiercely, there are tears in her voice.

"And I, you," is all he says.

What a time has he chosen to  come back to himself, when death and decay surround his home, suffacates him.

She lets go of him after a few moments, and he looks around, no wight has entered the Godswood for some time. Is the threat really over? At least on Winterfell? He is too afraid to look through his third-eye, he doesn't want to get lost again. 

Theon is still standing guard, along with Ghost, Alys Karstark, and a few Ironborn that have survived.

"Thank you," he says, though he is looking at Theon, he is addressing them all, "for protecting me."

There are several nods, and he feels guilty and useless most of all.

He should have been in the crypts.

"I will go and see if they're all gone," Arya says. 

And before he can protest, she runs swiftly back to the castle.

He is afraid for her now, and for Jon too, and mostly afraid to get lost again, because the temptation to look is still there, he wants to know, he wants to protect the family that he has left, but he can't when he is a cripple, and he can't when he is a Raven, a Crow, he is still useless, a burden.

At least Sansa is safe.

 

*

 

The fighting is over, the morning had dawned, the dead are gone, at least for now, at least from Winterfell. But there are corpses everywhere, long dead many, and some newly. Mountains of them have formed, the stench of decay is horrible.

And Bran feels numb. And stupid. And useless even more. But numb most of all. 

He should've realized that the crypts weren't safe, someone should have, Sam should have or Tyrion or Sansa or Lord Varys, but they were dead too now, no one in the crypts had survived. None of them were fighters, not that it mattered, the fighters had died too, in hundreds and thousands.

It was all his fault, he should've found a way to protect them, he should have mastered his third eye, he shouldn't have let the Crow take over, let the Raven tell and not just speak.

They're bringing the dead from the crypts out now, Ser Davos, Brienne, Theon, Podrick and the Hound all help Jon, who looks so exhausted, they all do.

Arya has a tight grip on his shoulder, she doesn't want to break, not like he has, not again, he can feel it in the way her fingers dig in his flesh, he has felt the same, feels the same. So they wait, outside the broken gates of Winterfell, a little away from all the corpses that surround it, she ready to protect him now, doesn't want to lose even more of her family now, and he sits there useless.

Melisandre is beside them, looking doubtful, unsure, just like he feels.

A little farther away, Daenerys is crumpled down in the snow, she has lost the most out of them all last night.

He watches as their dead are brought out into the open, not every face is distinguishable, but they aren't rotting yet, which means they were living last night. There are some who don't even have any left to mourn, to identify.

He wants to rage, go down to the crypts and ask all the Starks there, his father, why didn't they protect as they had him, Rickon, Jojen, Meera, Summer, Shaggydog, Hodor and Osha.

But he can't even do that, so he just sits there feeling numb.

A dragon looks out protective of them all, all the living that remained, another mourns and protects his mother, and Ghost prowls beside him, protecting his pack.

It takes hours for all their dead to be brought in the open, and they stand there hopeless and cold, starving, watching. All the warriors, the fighters look so bone tiredly exhausted, the atmosphere is grim.

Bran looks at the corpses of children, the torn face of Sansa, and hates himself for not finding a way to protect them, for putting them in a place where they were the most vulnerable.

He wants to cry, but he just feels numb, he wants to escape, to run, to fly, but the numbness is overwhelming, he wants to hide in the past, he want to be afraid of getting lost, but all he feels is numb.

Jon is beside Daenerys, helping her up, Drogon flanks them.

"We need to get away from here," he says, "it's not safe for us here anymore."

"Where is?" asks the Hound cynically.

Jon looks at him, "I don't know, but it's not here anymore."

He looks defeated, and Bran wants to comfort him, but can't, this is all his fault, for believing in the lies of the Crow, for believing in the power of the Raven.

"We can't just leave Winterfell, it's our home," Arya says in despair.

She has fought so hard, and so long to come back here, and it breaks his heart that life is not even letting her stay.

"But it's not safe, little sister," Jon says brokenly.

Bran has a sudden urge to laugh hysterically now, all the dead are dead, and all the living broken.

"Nowhere is safe," she says, but doesn't protest further.

No one does.

 

*

 

They break fast, the food in the Winterfell stores enough to feed an army. No army of theirs exist anymore though.

Then the fifty or so survivors pack food as much as they can carry, for they would need it on their journey, wherever it may lead, Ser Davos, Podrick and Brienne distrubuting it all.

Brienne looks like she can barely hold herself up, and barely hold herself together, grief is written all over her face, and yet she carries on. 

Ser Davos face is determined, and angry, he keeps looking at Melisandre in loathing, holding himslef back, from words, from sword.

The beautiful face of Shireen Baratheon, comes to Bran's memory, of the Crow's memory, of the Raven's, and he doesn't begrudge him his hate.

Everyone is doing something, eating, helping, moving, preparing the horses that survived, and Bran just sits there and watches. 

He wants someone to look at him, blame him, shout at him for being so sure in their plan, but no one pays him any mind, apart from Arya, who is fussing over his furs, trying not to look at Sansa.

They wanted to make funeral pyres for the dead at least, but they're all so tired, so few, and don't have enough time to even do that, so all their dead just lie there, staring unseeingly at him accusingly, he can't look away.

Her eyes, they're closed, her face torn, but still feels like she is looking at him, blaming him, asking him why he wasn't there with them, why he was so special to be protected by fighters.

"Bran," Arya again somehow breaks into his reverie, "don't look at her, please. Don't blame yourself, I know you are, it's not your fault."

Bran wants to scoff at that, because it is. 

"Don't get lost again, I just got you back, I can't lose you again, I can't lose anymore of my family. Please," and her voice breaks on the last word. 

And that finally breaks into his numbness, ans he moves his eyes away from the dead sister to the living, and he holds her hand tight. 

"I won't," he promises.

He hopes he can keep it.

 

*

 

A few hours later, they're packed, with furs and food, ready to go. 

Bran sits atop a horse, his chair is going to be left here, with all the dead, he mourns it, less than he doea his sleigh, but he mours.

He tries not to mourn his sister, his family, his friends, if he does, he will break, he doesn't want to break further. 

Jon is coaxing Dany onto a horse, she hasn't eaten much, and Bran's heart breaks for her. She has lost so much now, and she didn't have much in the beginning, no family like, he did.

The dragons encircle them in the air, the only direwolf here does the same on the ground.

And then they're off to the unknown, to danger, or away from it, to the south, where more living might there be still, or the dead await in even larger numbers, to the uncertain. 

Most are walking, just a few sit on horses, and it's slow, but even slowly they get further away from home.

Jon rides Rhaegal, and when they're a long distance away from the castle, the two go back and burn all the bodies, and the castle with them, the Godswood, the only place spared.

Bran feels a pang in his heart, he is looking at a burning Winterfell again, and this time it will be forever gone. And this time he leaves it with the person because of whom be left it the first time. 

As fire consumes all, as the snow relentlessly falls, as the white wind blows, howling loud, Bran prays for strength, prays to the Gods, to the Raven, to the Crow, to the Starks all gone, for them, for protection, for hope.

And the tears then fall, silent and many. 

He can't lose again.

Not the living, not himself, not the family that remained. 

He is afraid still, but he will fight, he will protect, he will find a way.

But before that he will mourn.

He doesn't want to, want to be strong, but he breaks, and mourn he does. 

For all that he has lost, for all that everyone has.

And the screams he hears again, from memory, and he cries.

And he leaves his home behind. 

Forever.

Burning.

Broken.

Like him.

And still he prays for hope, because he needs it.

The living need it.

Bran Stark will find his purpose again.

Will find a way.

He won't let the dead win, he decides determinedly.

Winter was here now, will be for long.

The long night has begun, and Bran will find a way to end it, and he will hope, and he will fight, and he will protect, and he will dream of spring. 


End file.
